


The Results of Finding You

by thatonegreenpencil



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor Deserves Happiness, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Hank hates androids (at first), Humor, Hurt Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt/Comfort, I guess? I'm not sure I guess there's some mystery, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Hank, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonegreenpencil/pseuds/thatonegreenpencil
Summary: In a world where the android rebellion is in pieces, deviant androids are decommissioned on sight, and the RK800 line was developed for different purposes, Hank finds a man bleeding out on his doorstep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a really bad habit of getting two chapters into a fic (or one fic into a fandom) and then never writing for that fic/fandom again... Hopefully that does not happen here because I know how I want this fic to go for once and I love my android boy so much TT
> 
> Btw, this fic is gen only. I don't mind Hank/Connor being shipped romantically but I personally prefer them in a non-romantic dynamic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy~

Hank wakes to a pounding on both his door and head. Both are really fucking annoying. A more extended list of annoying things at the moment: the ache in his back from his shitty mattress, Sumo’s rabid barking as he scuffles his paws on the door, the rancid taste of hours-old alcohol between his teeth, that fucking pounding. 

It’s probably a couple of kids here to rob his house, too idiotic to know that you shouldn’t knock before committing a robbery. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Hank gets up with a groan, his whole body protesting, his head squeezing—those kids better end up pissing their pants for this. Or  _ something _ . For this trouble he’s going through. God, he’s so hungover.

He grumbles and stumbles his way to the front door, only stopping to wave away Sumo from the door before the dog knocks it down in his eagerness. As fun as it’d be to set a massive dog on whoever’s disturbing him at—he squints at the clock on the wall—2 o'clock in the morning, he is not in the mood to go on a dog chase and get called in for causing a neighborhood disturbance. He has too much sympathy for the poor soul taking the graveyard shift at the DPD for him to do such a thing.

“What the  _ fuck _ is it,” Hank snarls with slurred words, wrenching the door open.

It’s Cole.

Hank blinks. The world spins. Then he blinks. Repeatedly he blinks, blinks until he can see that the person on his doorstep is far too old, too tall. Of course it’s not Cole, of course it’s fucking not.

But the guy is bleeding. Drying blood is all over the place—streaked over the man’s face, his shirt, his hands. Hank is guessing on that last one because the man is currently using said hands to prop up his upper body so his face is angled towards the door, towards Hank; but in the dim light he can see there’s bloody hand prints all over the concrete leading up to the front door. Although most of the man’s hair is stuffed under a beanie, a few blood-crusted strands fall onto his face as he meets Hank's gaze.

Even though he’s clearly an adult man—god, those eyes look so young.

“I need help,” the man wheezes.

Years of police training kicks Hank into action past the haze of sleep and alcohol. He hurries to throw the man’s arm over his shoulder and haul him into the house. Sumo’s low growl turns into a soft whine as Hank lays the man out on the floor to assess the damage so he can get him some first aid. Then the ambulance.

Clear head trauma, judging by the blood and the man’s dazed state. But there must be some other major wound for there to be this much blood. There’s dried blood on the side and front of the guy’s (rather expensive-looking) button-up, but no visible tearing. The little skin he can see beneath the copper-red on his neck and hands seems unmarked.

He goes to unbutton the white-collar shirt to inspect for further injury and the guy fucking flips. If he looked like he was a mangled bloody heap a second ago, he looks like a mangled bloody wild animal now, backing himself against the wall on unsteady legs and looking like he’s gonna bolt for it. Even while he is in absolutely no condition to do anything with his legs.

Damage control. Prioritize damage control. Is there a reason the guy doesn’t want him to see underneath the shirt? Past abuse is a likely answer. He certainly looks like the victim of—of something. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” Hank says slowly, arms up. The slur in his voice is gone. In fact, his mind is going a thousand miles per second trying to calm the kid down. What a way to become sober. “But you’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m trying to patch you up. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

At the mention of an ambulance, the man further presses himself into the wall, trembling. “The blood flow has stopped. I don't need an ambulance. I just need a place to stay.” For a guy who seems like he’s lost a lot of blood, his voice is perfectly steady and articulate. 

But even with his soothing delivery, the words set off blaring warning bells in Hank’s mind. The rejection of an ambulance means that the guy either has no official records or bad ones, and Hank doesn’t know which scenario is worse. He suddenly wishes he had gotten his gun from its place on the nightstand. But then again, Hank’s combat skills aren’t bad, at least not to the point where he’d be beaten by a man barely on his feet. He finds comfort in this, but it also means he’ll have to watch the guy the whole night to make sure he doesn’t try anything. God, Hank just wanted a peaceful night.

“Okay.” Hank breathes out. “Okay. But listen, I’m a Lieutenant for Detroit Police. I’ve seen it all. You don’t need to hide anything.”

_ Or try anything. _ Right now, Hank’s either too drunk or too sober to step back and see the repercussions of what he’s doing, which is agreeing to take a shady stranger into his house and letting him stay there. But he hasn’t been one for good life decision in a long time.

“I understand. Thank you. Thank you so much.” The man doesn’t react to the mention of him being a police officer, which is a good sign. Hank convinces himself it’s a good sign (in a rare show of optimism). And the cherry on top on this happy little sundae: the guy gives him a slight smile. It makes his brown eyes twinkle like he’s a child that’s been offered candy rather than a man offered shelter. “Do you have a place where I could clean up?”

“Do you have a name?”

The guy stares, not having expected a question. “My name is Connor.”

“Alright Connor.” Hank grunts. “Let’s get your ass over to the shower.”

Connor, despite being fine speech-wise, continues to struggle to stand even with Hank supporting him on one side. Hank’s diagnosis would be concussion if not for the fact that Connor’s eyes were bright and alert, scanning the hallway with fascination like there’s more to look at than barren walls and empty space. 

“What’s your name, Lieutenant?” Connor asks as Hank is panting to support Connor’s weight. It’s like he’s talking about the weather and not as if he’s not struggling to stay on his feet. Bleeding men aren’t supposed to be this talkative, Hank thinks, even if said bleeding man claims the bleeding has stopped. Hank grunts and doesn’t give an answer until he meets Connor’s eyes, which are wide and expectant.

His resolve disappears with a sigh. “It’s Hank.”

“Lieutenant Hank, I’d like to thank you again and apologize, I know this must be a major inconvenience—”

“You can apologize after you stop making me carry you around,” Hank says. “And don’t call me that.”

“Alright Lieutenant H—Lieutenant.”

Connor’s going from poor victim to sassy little shit real fast. Although, it’s hard to tell whether the sass is intentional or comes naturally to him since he says it all with the most monotone voice Hank’s ever heard. Sure, there’s inflections in it, but only barely. Combined with the formal way the guy talks—Hank's got a real weirdo on his hands.

Yet here he is, pointing out where the shampoo and body wash and extra towels are to the same weirdo. What a life.

“You need extra clothes?”

“Please, if you have some to spare.”

Hank dips into his bedroom and digs out the first pair of shirt and pants he finds. He throws them at Connor, and Connor catches them with surprisingly deft hands. But he’s still putting most of his weight against the wall. Hank frowns. “You sure you’re okay in here?”

“All fine, Lieutenant. I won’t take long.”

He hears the shower turn on when he gets back to the living room. Sumo is waiting for him with a gently wagging tail and soft eyes (too reminiscent of the ones that stared at him in the hallway. Of Connor’s).  Hank gives him a scratch under his chin, just how he likes it, and in return gets a companion to join him on the couch for some late-night soap operas. He does this sometimes, the times when he can’t be bothered to go to the bar, when his drinking pace is slow and the alcohol hasn’t quite settled in, leaving nothing but a warm buzz in the pit of his stomach. For all the fucking technology humanity’s got, they’ve never been able to improve the quality of late-night soap operas. It makes for good background noise when he doesn’t want to think.

About forty minutes pass by the time Connor exits the bathroom. By then, Hank’s adrenaline rush has worn off and he’s drifting asleep with a knocked-out Sumo slumped next to him. With his eyes almost closed, Hank doesn’t see Connor as much as he feels the disturbance in the room itself.

“Lieutenant?” Connor calls. At the sound, Hank forces his eyes to open again. 

“You look ridiculous,” he says. Hank’s t-shirt that has “Jazz Fest 2015” scrawled on it hangs off Connor like a bedsheet. In contrast, the sweatpants are too short, cutting off a few inches above his ankle. What ties together the whole outfit, though, is the beanie still atop Connor’s head. Hank hopes, for Connor’s sake, that he dried his hair before putting the thing back on. In Hank’s opinion, nothing reeks worse than the smell of trapped, damp air. “Take the damn hat off,” Hank tells him.

Connor purses his lips and then proceeds to ignore his last comment. Oh well, it’s Connor’s downfall. “As I was saying before, I’d like to sincerely apologize for the intrusion. I know how it must seem, but I promise you that I will not hurt you or steal anything from you. My only intentions are to stay here for a couple days—”

Hank blanches. “ _ Days? _ ”

“—or less, if you’d like. But at least until tomorrow night. You don’t even need to feed me. I’ll stay out of your way.” He pauses. “Please.”

The way Connor says please—the guy's only used it twice and Hank can tell it is going to be the end of him.

“Fine. I’ll think about it.” He pushes himself off the couch, being careful not to wake Sumo. Scans Connor up and down again. The shower did him good—Connor looks more like a poorly-dressed college student than a murder victim. Hank notes that his walking has improved as well, which means the damage to his head must’ve been shallow, only hard enough to cause a temporary shock. At least now Hank can be a little less worried about Connor not letting him look at the wound. Suspicious, maybe, but no longer worried. “I’m going to bed, you take the couch. You can grab food from the pantry—there’s not a lot but you could whip something up. You try anything and Sumo over there will bite your head off and you’ll be kicked out of the house by me. Gone. Got it?”

Connor nods. “I understand.”

Hank pauses. “I’m still not sold that you’re alright. It’s personal, whatever, but there’s a first aid kit under the kitchen sink. Should've told you earlier.”

“Thank you.” Connor smiles. It’s a crooked, hopeful little thing. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

Hank shuffles off to the bedroom without a response. He lands on the mattress with a thud, the heaviest thud he’s ever heard.

God, he thinks, what has he gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I know androids bleed blue blood. I also know that the blood that was on Connor was red. Just remember this: if Hank (or anyone else) had seen blue blood instead of red, they would immediately realize Connor is an android. But then where did Connor get the blood....?
> 
> Second by the way, the title comes from the 'Therefore You and Me' DBH animatic by atenahena. It's so so so good, go check it out if you want feels.
> 
> Comments and kudos go a long way to helping me update, so if you have anything to say at all, please say it! Even if it's a criticism - I'm always worried about characterization so words of advice are always appreciated. I've already typed out a bit of the next chapter and I wrote this chapter in 4 hours (including story planning time) so hopefully the next update won't be too long. And thank you for reading~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning is a rather confusing series of events. Hank has feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been blown away by the reception to the first chapter. Only one chapter so far and already over 100 kudos and 700 hits? Wowee, I really do not deserve this, thank you. I hope you enjoy this next installment of this wild ride (which actually is not very wild at all in this chapter, because I'm a sucker for fluff before the storm)! A special thanks to those of you that took the time to leave encouraging words, you have no idea how much motivation I get from your comments.
> 
> Update-schedule wise, I'm thinking an update every 3-5 days or so! I'm not as well put-together as those cool authors that update on specific days, so sorry about the uncertainty. Think of it like a surprise party :')
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: As many of you have probably noticed, I am not writing as an omniscient narrator. Everything written is Hank's observations and Hank's thoughts, which means there are things that go unnoticed and observations that may be flat-out wrong. (Did someone say: red herring) Just stuff to keep in mind as the story continues~
> 
> Now without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

Connor still looks ridiculous in the morning. Maybe even more so. Watching him reach out and toss another pancake onto the already-sizeable stack of pancakes—it’s like watching a child play adult. Mostly because of how the shirt Connor’s wearing is practically drowning him. Hank makes a mental note to try and find him a smaller one.

But right now—all Hank can do is stand and gape.

“Good morning, lieutenant.”

“Don’t call me that,” Hank says immediately. “It’s Hank.” Because these words are easier than saying something like ‘thanks’ or ‘this is too much’ or ‘I haven’t had breakfast at home in years.’ He hasn’t even cooked at his house in what feels like forever. Waking up hungover most days means he’s too tired to make breakfast or a packed lunch, and he comes home tired so he always has dinner out and makes a beeline for the bar. 

He knows what he said last night (hardly remembers it—this all still feels like some convoluted prank), but he’s surprised that Connor managed to scrape together something with what shit he had in the pantry. A.k.a. Barely anything. Hank was thinking the kid would get himself a protein bar or two, not prepare a full-on breakfast for  _ him _ .

Flour doesn’t expire, right? Hank hopes not, because he can’t remember when the last time he went grocery shopping was, either. A continuous cycle of working and drinking can do that to a guy.

He settles down at the round table. Sumo comes to say hi with a brief nuzzle before going back to panting at Connor while he cooks. Sumo’s tail wags slowly across the floor and speeds up whenever Connor glances down at him. The traitor. 

But if Connor’s plan was to use food to lower the threat of getting his face bitten off, it’s working. Sumo is, as of now, completely at Connor’s beck and call. But the possibility of Connor having hidden ulterior motives is one Hank is finding harder and harder to believe, because what kind of criminal cooks breakfast for someone on the police force without being told? Then again, Hank’s met all sorts of criminals. Some too dumb to find their own toes and the rare cunning ones that take a while to be caught. If Connor is a criminal, Hank reluctantly admits that he’d be in the latter category. But it’ll take a lot to fool Hank when he’s anticipating it, and his guard is still very much raised.

“Breakfast is served,” Connor says with the smallest hints of pride in his voice, setting down the pile of steaming pancakes in front of him. Sumo woofs in excitement.

“You’re a spoiled dog,” Hank tells him, and then scoops a pancake onto the ground for Sumo to gobble away at. But Hank can’t blame the dog’s enthusiasm—even his own mouth is watering.

He looks up. Connor is hovering over him like he’s waiting for something.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Hank asks, waving his fork at the seat opposite himself. “Sit your ass down. Just ‘cause you cooked it doesn’t mean you eat last.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I already ate,” Connor says, but ends up sitting down across from Hank a heartbeat later.

There’s a palpable awkwardness between them. Hank flicks on the TV to try and cover the tension; of course, he could fill it just as well by actually talking to the kid, but Hank’s not one for meaningless conversation. He’s more than content with letting the scraping of his fork and the babble of lifetime TV fill the silence for him.

But that doesn’t mean he’s stopped observing the kid. He alternates his gaze between staring at the pancakes and glancing at Connor, who’s sitting there staring at him intently like a curious puppy. Doesn’t stop Hank from looking, though. If all it took was one guy staring at him to unnerve him, the rest of the Detroit Police would be doomed. Plus, they’ve already established that Connor is fucking weird.

If Hank thought the whole incident seemed unreal last night, seeing Connor in the flesh, basked in the daylight seeping through the curtains, tugging at that beanie of his—it’s even more absurd now.

“I’m sorry there’s no syrup,” Connor says, having the gall to actually sound sorry about the damn thing. “I know syrup is customary, but there was none in the pantry.”

“This is pretty damn good already, so I could really care less,” Hank says between bites of pancake. “You feelin’ better, then? Must be feeling pretty peachy if you’re able to do all this.”

“Yes, I am feeling significantly better than I did last night.”

“Hm.” He stabs his fork into another slice. “Still thinking of taking off tonight?”

“Yes.” Connor hesitates. “Although my condition’s improved, I believe it’d be better for me to go at night rather than morning.”

Hank grunts, taking another bite. If Connor’s running from the law, it makes sense. It’s easier to hide from street cameras under the cover of darkness. But this almost guarantees that Connor is tangled up in some kind of trouble (as if that wasn’t obvious enough). Can’t be drugs—Connor’s perfect complexion says the exact opposite. His complexion also rules out gang or mafia activity. There’s not a single scratch or blemish on the kid. What an enigma. “You’re really not gonna tell me what’s up with you?”

Connor’s eyes finally drop from Hank’s face. He tugs down his beanie a bit more too—Connor’s nervous tick, and Hank’s sure to make a mental note of it. But he knows that’s all he’s gonna get. And a small part of Hank knows it’s not his job to pry. Anything Connor could offer would be self-incriminating for the kid, based on the pieces Hank’s gathered about him so far. But such is the curse of a detective’s curiosity. 

“Whatever,” Hank says flippantly after the silence starts getting suffocating, “as long as you keep this cooking thing up, you can do whatever the fuck you want.” He tilts his plate towards Sumo so he can lick off the crumbs before Hank places the plate in the sink. 

Connor’s quick to follow and hover around his proximity as he turns the tap on. Hank feels a twinge of pity for him. The younger man looks lost in a lot of ways, like how his eyes flicker towards the smallest noise, how his steps never seem a hundred-percent resolute but more like Connor’s guessing where to place his foot next. Connor couldn’t have missed the stench of alcohol in his house. He must know Hank is slightly unhinged. At an alcoholic’s mercy and who-knows-how-far from home—anyone would be uneasy.

And even though he seems better than last night, as Connor himself stated, Hank notices Connor’s movements are still sluggish despite his alert appearance, and he’s favoring one leg as he walks. “First-aid kit do you alright?” Hank asks.

“Yes, it was perfect.” Hank feels Connor sidle up beside him, sides almost brushing. “Lieutenant, why don’t you let me—”

“Why don’t you back off,” Hank snaps, jerking away. He hasn’t had someone touch him so (suddenly? Softly?) in a long, long while. It’s startling. But when Connor flinches back—a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it look of genuine fear that passes over his face like a shadow—Hank regrets it. Immensely.

“Sorry for upsetting you, lieutenant.” Maybe Hank’s guilt is making him feel this way, but Connor’s voice sounds hollower than before. Hank’s fucked it up. The weight of it sits in Hank’s throat, and he has to force himself to make words around it.

“I didn’t mean—I’ve got the dishes, alright?” Hank sighs. Connor’s not looking at him anymore, and Hank’s more worried by that than he was by the freakish stare. “You should get some rest instead of passing out doing something stupid, like the dishes.”

Connor doesn’t say anything to that, but he does let himself be persuaded by Sumo to come curl up on the couch. Hank takes that as apology accepted, even though he’s fully aware that nothing that came out of his mouth was anywhere near an apology. Instead, he brews two cups of coffee after finishing up the dishes and carries them over to the couch as a peace offering.

“You drink coffee?” Hank asks, passing the mug over. 

Connor cradles it to his chest, careful not to bump Sumo, who is sprawled over Connor’s lap like a giant throw blanket. “I’ve never tried it.”

“Jesus Connor, you haven’t lived.” What kind of young adult’s never tried coffee? “Go on, have a sip then.”

Connor seems bewildered at his request and takes a moment to stare into the mug’s contents. Then, he promptly dips two fingers into the coffee and licks up the droplets.

Hank is speechless. “What the fuck.”

Connor blinks up at him, clueless. Even as his fingers are slick with residual coffee, he’s acting clueless. “I’m testing it,” he says, matter-of-fact, and then smacks his lips. “Lieutenant, I believe the combination of caffeine and alcohol is very bad for your health.”

“Not that I give a fuck, but you don’t see me drinking them at once, do you?”

“But it’s rather good,” Connor continues, the corners of his mouth inching upward.

“Well, that’s fantastic. Now try drinking it like a normal person.” Hank sighs and brings his own mug to his lips. It’s too fucking early for this.

Speaking of early. Hank glances at the wall clock. 9:05, which means he has around 30 more minutes before he gets chewed out for not coming into work. He could call into work now and save Jeffrey the angry voicemail (Hank doesn’t understand why he keeps insisting, it’s been years since he’s come to work on time) but who gives a shit about him. Jeffrey is an ass some days, but he’s a lenient ass even on the worst of those days. He would never put in a disciplinary warning for something as common as coming in late to work—he stopped doing that after the first couple weeks. Plus, Hank’s been on the force for too long and have known Jeffrey too long to be intimidated by him anyway.

He glances back at Connor and is relieved to see he’s now drinking the coffee like a regular human being. “You know, you dipped your fingers in there.”

Connor keeps up the innocent act, eyes  blinking wide. “I wanted to make sure it was good to drink.”

“I brewed it, of course it’s damn good.”

Connor contemplates that. “It is. It’s delicious.” 

Hank shouldn’t feel warm at the compliment, but he does.

They sit in comfortable silence sipping at their coffee, watching the shitty b-rated romance movie playing on the screen. Just as the couple get into a passionate, heated declaration about spending the rest of their lives together, Connor speaks up.

“Lieutenant, why…” Connor pauses. “Why aren’t you reporting me to the police?”

Hank reels for a moment. Not because the question is unexpected, but because it’s the same question that’s been floating around in his own mind this whole time. It’s weird to hear it vocalized. “...Maybe it’s better not to ask,” Hank responds after many beats of silence.

“I’m aware. But I’m also curious as to why you’re ignoring police protocol. I’m aware that I’m—”

“Super fuckin’ shady. Yeah, I’m aware too. But I also know it’s not my place to give a damn,” Hank states, voice resolute. “I’m not gonna throw you in jail because you happened to choose my place to come for help.” 

“I… I see.” Connor has that bewildered look on his face again. “Well, thank—”

“Listen, I’d rather go to work than listen to another damn apology come from your mouth—that’s saying something. So just forget about it.”

Another beat of silence.

“Do you enjoy jazz?” Connor asks.

Hank stares.

“This shirt, it says ‘Jazz Festival.’” Connor pulls at the hem so the words aren’t all crumpled up, as if Hank doesn’t know what the damn shirt says. “I’ll admit I’ve never listened to jazz, although maybe I might like it if I did. I’m more of a heavy metal guy.”

“A guy like you listens to heavy metal?” Hank barks out a laugh. Connor doesn’t look like he could frighten a mouse, much less handle music where half the sounds are loud-as-hell guitar riffs and screaming. “If you like heavy metal, you wouldn’t like jazz.”

“Oh.” There’s a genuine disappointment in his voice. Hank has to hold back a chuckle.

“What’s your dog’s name?” Connor asks after another moment. “I don’t think I know it. He’s a very nice dog.”

This, Hank realizes with another stifled chuckle, is Connor’s attempt at small talk. The kid’s trying his best—Hank supposes the best he can do is at least humor him. “It’s Sumo. He might be a bit too nice, if you ask me.” The last words he directs with a glare at the snoozing lump of fur. At the sound of his name, Sumo lifts his head up, blinks sleepily, licks his lips a couple times, and then snuggles deeper into Connor’s lap. Doesn’t even acknowledge Hank, the bastard. So this is what years of their deep relationship has led up to.

Connor gives the dog a gentle smile and a pet on his giant, furry head. “I think I’m starting to like dogs very much. Even if this one here doesn’t do a lot of wrestling.” Catching Hank’s blank (frankly, baffled) stare, Connor goes, “Wrestling? Sumo Wrestling? You aren’t a fan, lieutenant?”

“Hell no.” The words slip out without thought. “I didn’t name him.”

Just like that, his mood’s gone sour. No matter how much he might’ve indulged himself in this rare feeling of normalcy, it doesn’t change the fact that he drank himself to sleep last night. On most nights. How much of a wreck he is.

And because the universe apparently wants to hammer in that last fact, a CyberLife advertisement decides to play at that exact moment.

_ “The newest stage of intimacy,” _ the spokesperson is saying in a smooth, cool voice.  _ “And the most advanced partner you’ll ever meet. The new BL and CX 300—” _

“Goddammit,” Hank curses under his breath and snatches the remote off the coffee table, flicks channels until he gets to the sports replay channel. It’s not even basketball; it’s golf, the most tedious sport known to man. “Goddamn fuckin’ androids.”

Then the phone rings, because misfortune always catches up to Hank sooner or later. He stretches his head to read the caller ID—of course it’s fucking Jeffrey—and lets it go to voicemail as always. When he spares a quick glance at Connor, he sees that the other man is entrenched in the poetic game that is golf, staring at the screen, not even moving a muscle. No surprise—Connor’s stoic nature and the blandness of golf fit together perfectly. Hank should ask Connor if he’s tried it before.

The voicemail tone beeps.  _ “Hank, I know you’re home so don’t pretend you don’t hear this. We need you at the office ASAP. I don’t care how hungover you are or how disgusting you look, this is a special case and if you’re not here in ten minutes I am coming over and hauling your ass over here myself. I am dead serious.” _

Out of all days, of course this had to be the day they actually  _ needed _ his presence at the station instead of merely tolerating it. The one day where he isn’t just nursing a hangover in the morning and has actual important shit to think about. To take care of.

He’s ninety percent sure Connor’s not going to bolt the moment Hank is gone from sight. He’d like those odds under any other circumstances, but that ten percent of doubt nags at him today. Connor did say he was feeling much better and that he planned to leave by nightfall. If whatever case Jeffrey has for him is as urgent as he makes it out to be (pretty damn urgent by the sound of it, he’s never heard Jeffrey swear in a voicemail), Hank might be back at the asscrack of dawn for all he knows. By then Connor would be gone.

Connor’s not going to take anything. Hank is one-hundred percent sure about this. He just… Hank can’t believe that Connor’s actions, his whole personality this far has just been a ploy. Call him soft, call him sentimental—Hank refuses to believe it. But that’s what makes it even worse; it doesn’t feel right letting Connor leave without giving him food and supplies, without a single glance of him going out the door, without saying goodbye.

(Because he’s gone one-too many times without saying goodbye, because he knows how it feels not to have closure, because he’s been living in hell for three fucking years)

“Connor,” he shouts after he’s thrown on some semi-suitable clothes and is now digging around for his coat in the bedroom, “you heard the message, I’m going out for a couple hours. Rest up and don’t leave the house, you hear me?”

Sumo must’ve gotten off the couch at some point. He bounds up to Hank and lets out a soft woof before nuzzling into the hand that goes to scratch his chin. “Good dog. You better love me the most.” Sumo licks Hank’s hand in agreement. Still no response from Connor. Strange, seeing as how the guy’s usually so receptive to words. 

Hank tugs on his coat. “Connor?” he calls, coming back to the living room. “Did you hear me?”

He finds Connor spread out horizontally on the couch with his eyes closed, but he opens them at Hank’s insistent shouting. “I understand, and I wish you a safe trip, lieutenant.” 

“Just stay put,” Hank says, voice stern. He doesn’t say please—it’s too desperate, too ridiculous—but he hopes to God that Connor hears it anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Fowler have a nice chat and the crime scene is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I like to call the exposition chapter. Hopefully it's not as boring as that sounds because I really enjoyed writing this chapter, even if our precious android boi isn't in this one TT he will be coming back next chapter as long as the next chapter doesn't run away from me (it's already at 2000 words... rip) But there's a lot of valuable info contained in this chapter, enough to piece together a few things... can you catch em' all? (gotta catch em all gotta catch em all)
> 
> There will also be an OC in this chapter because I didn't want to use a preexisting officer from the game, I hope that's okay~ (The OC will not be major at all)
> 
> I can't express how thankful I am for everyone's continued support. Your comments especially are all so warm and supportive and amazing, I cry every time TT So thank you thank you thank you: for reading, for the kudos, for the comments - for everything.
> 
> (IMPORTANT: I messed up and put Kamski's house on a mountain bc I thought that's where it was and it's too late to go back now.... also it fits better with the overall plot and explaining why the deviant had so much time to escape :'))
> 
> Now without further ado, please enjoy!

“Hank, you actually made it.”

Jeffrey stands at the helm of the homicide department’s operations at the station, and it’s easy to get the impression that he towers over the rest of them just because his office is on a raised platform and because of his frequently-exhibited ‘I’m the boss and what I say, goes’ attitude. But Hank’s never been one to fall for his schmick. Maybe he would’ve fallen for such theatrics if he didn’t know Jeffrey so well. Or maybe if he gave more fucks.

“No need to sound so blown away,” Hank mutters. “I’m not a fuckin’ toddler. And I’m still part of this department.”

Jeffrey raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. Well he can go fuck himself. Hank showed up to work on _his request_ while a stranger camps out in his house unsupervised—that has to amount to something. “What this case, then?” he asks, hunching over the files on Jeffrey’s desk.

A quick look-over reveals…well, almost nothing. It’s just a bunch of privacy statements and non-disclosure agreements. But the name at the bottom is what catches his eyes—and almost makes them pop out of their sockets.

“ _Elijah Kamski?_ ” Hank exclaims. “What the _hell?!_ ”

“Keep it _down_ ,” Jeffrey hisses, snatching the files off his desk and sending a couple sheets tumbling to the floor. “Do you not know what a non-disclosure agreement is, Hank? I don’t need you shouting it out to the whole damn office, alright?”

“ _This_ is what you want me to get mixed up in? Elijah-fucking- _Kamski?_ ” Hank’s body falls into the chair across Jeffrey’s desk, and he hopes the resounding _thump_ is enough to show Jeffrey that, no, he is not doing this. “Jeffrey. Seriously, what the fuck. You must be out of your mind if you think I’m going to take the case.”

Besides his personal qualms with Kamski, any experienced officer knows that getting mixed up with bigwigs at the top of the corporate chain leads to messy, messy cases. Hank doesn’t possess either the emotional stability or mental capacity to deal with a messy case at the moment, probably never will. “I can’t,” Hank says. “You know I can’t.”

“If I knew you couldn’t, I wouldn’t have put your name down for the assignment.”

“You already put my name— _Jesus, Jeffrey!_ ” Hank bunches his hands into fists and clenches. Hard. “Haven’t you heard of this thing called _consent?_ ”

“As your superior, I can assign you any case I want.” Jeffrey’s eyes are hard, pinpricks of black beneath the ridges of thick, drawn-together eyebrows. “Instead of jumping to stupid conclusions, why don’t you wait till you have the details?”

“As if details are going to convince me to take the damn case.”

“Maybe if you stopped being a stubborn ass, they might.”

Well fuck you too.

Jeffrey sets his elbows on the table and puts his hands together in a position reminiscent of the famous _The Thinker_ statue. He might as well be made out of stone with all the gravitas he’s putting into each movement—the hard line of his lips, the stony expression glued onto his face. “Kamski was assaulted,” he says.

“Kamski, a world-famous, multi-millionaire, assaulted? What a surprise.”

“Will you just shut the fuck up for a moment and _listen?_ ” he hisses. “Hank, he was assaulted by an _android_.”

The word falls from Jeffrey’s mouth and it just… hangs. It hangs in the air like a 100-pound weight, and the gravity of it is just beginning to dawn on Hank. “His own?”

“Prototype of some sort. For a whole new type of android.”

“But he quit CyberLife.”

“Retired,” Jeffrey corrects. “And this was a special commission. Something only he could design.”

“Because he’s a genius.” And because CyberLife is full of fucking dumbasses.

“Exactly,” Jeffrey affirms; even though Hank didn’t vocalize his second statement, Jeffrey seems to be agreeing with that one too. “That’s why this is being kept under wraps. You get why this is so big, right?”

Hank doesn’t need Jeffrey to hold his fucking hand for him to connect the dots. Deviants are supposed to be extinct. Even if there are a few stragglers that went underground before the deviant purge a couple years back, they have little to no chance of surviving once they come above ground; CyberLife revised their android moral code—the set of ‘ethics’ programmed into all androids—years ago: don’t kill humans, don’t assault defenseless humans, and all deviants are a corruption to society and must be reported to CyberLife immediately. Deviants are so hated and so easily noticed by their non-deviant counterparts that they stand zero chance trying to hide among society as a regular android.

Deviants are gone. Deviants will never have a possibility of being born ever again, and a deviant should definitely not be appearing in the house of the father of all androids.

“If they can’t get that deviant back, they’ll never be able to figure out what went wrong. And, according to Kamski, there’s a lot of money stacked on the development of this prototype, of this new type of android. It’s not just Kamski that’s the bigwig, there’s a lot of powerful people involved in this project. Backing it.”

“And the same project just turned deviant.”

“Imagine the outcry if the project was discontinued because the prototype went loose, or worse—if word gets out that it went _deviant_. The backlash. The stock plummets.” Jeffrey sighs. “Just a whole bunch of corrupt, corporate shit.”

Hank feels nauseous. “Christ. Well, it can’t hide for long, can it? Not with the new programming. Just send out more android patrols, whatever. You know they’ll find it.”

“Or maybe they won’t. Kamski is worried because…because, in his words, this is his ‘most ambitious model yet.’ Overloaded with features and intelligence no other android has.”

“Shit.” He rubs his temple. Yep, definitely nauseous. Maybe the hangover’s kicking in since it hadn’t this morning, this morning when he was at home, surrounded by homemade-pancakes and his dog and ignorant to the fact that there was a highly-advanced deviant on the loose. “But you’re still not explaining why  _I’m_ the one on the case.”

“Well…” There’s a slight moment of hesitation before Jeffrey says, “Believe it or not… Kamski asked for you to be on it specifically.”

“The _fuck?_ ” Hank barks. “The guy doesn’t even _know_ me. And I hate him! And hey, what was all that about you thinking I was capable enough to do the job?”

“Back off,” Jeffrey growls, standing from his seat so that he casts a looming shadow over Hank. “I don’t know why Kamski wanted you specifically, but as captain I could’ve denied his request, no questions asked. Even if he is one of the masterminds of the world at the moment. I only accepted his request because I _knew_ , Hank, I _knew_ you could do it. You’re one of the brightest people I know, the best at putting things together—”

“Jeffrey, that isn’t me. That hasn’t been me in ages.”

“You have to _get yourself out there!_ ” Jeffrey cries. “Hank, do you know how much it fucking tears me apart to see you ruining yourself every day? For _years?!_ This is your chance to get back in the game. I know you’re better than—than this crazy, drunk, doesn’t-give-a-shit persona you’re masking yourself with.”

“It’s not a fucking _persona,_ ” Hank snarls and he’s on his feet too, face-to-face with the enemy himself. “It’s me, it’s my fucking _life_ , and if you can’t come to terms with that you can fuck off, _Fowler._ ”

Both of them are breathing heavily, making the air in the small office space hot and labored, encasing and crushing them like the pressure around aluminum cans. Both their faces are flushed to the brim with anger, gazes locked in a silent battle of wills.

“Hank.” Jeffrey’s the one to break the electricity between them with his icy tone. “I didn’t want to do this, but you’re forcing me to pull rank. If you refuse to accept this case, I expect to have your badge and your letter of resignation on my desk by this afternoon. Is that clear?”

Hank glares the meanest glare he’s ever mustered. “That’s a low-fuckin’-blow. You dick.”

“I  _said_ , is that clear?”

“Fine,” Hank says through clenched teeth after several moments of crackling silence. “I’ll accept the damn case. I hope your life is all sunshine and rainbows now.” He bares his teeth and reaches out a hand for the case file, which is placed into his grasp by Jeffrey’s stilted movements. Hank promptly storms out of the office after that, and then out of the police station, a single bottle of beer taken from his emergency alcohol stash and smuggled out beneath his coat. Obviously he’s not supposed to be drinking on duty, but fuck rules. Fuck Jeffrey. Fuck Kamski.

Unfortunately, he’ll have to meet the man himself for a direct testimony and a scope of the scene if Hank wants any semblance of an idea of where to start looking for this deviant. Seeing as how he gets angry when he sees the man’s smug face on TV,  Hank doesn’t imagine that this encounter will end with them being buddy-buddy with one another.

But Connor. The sooner he gets the initial investigation wrapped up, the sooner he can go home. (And if Jeffrey starts crowing about how this case is major and how he can’t go home until it’s solved, Hank swears he’ll sucker punch the man. Hank did not sign up to work overtime for a case that’s dumping him elbow-deep in androids and CyberLife politics.)

Hank wouldn’t consider himself to be a professional on anything anymore, but he could pretend to be one for a day. Be civil. He’s rusty on his manners, but Hank thinks he used to be charming, once.

Hank takes a final swig from the bottle before tossing it into the dumpster out back, not caring about the loud shattering of glass in his ears, and flips open the case file. He can do this.

* * *

Kamski, because he is an egotistical billionaire who is worshipped by the masses, lives on a mountain mansion two hours out from Detroit. Of-fucking-course.

The case file states that the call came in at around 5 in the morning from Kamski, who had been knocked out by the deviant around 11 PM. The half-asleep officers at the end of their night shift who had to drive through the shitty roads to get to this place are the ones Hank has real sympathy for. Can Kamski not afford road pavement with his stacks of money or is too much of a dick to worry about the simple things in life? Probably the latter.

There’s already a line of police cars parked at the scene. With a single glance Hank can tell the DPD have dedicated a small but significant portion of the force to this case—but of course they’d dedicate a bunch of resources to a billionaire who could give them massive handouts. Fucking politics.

A blond-haired android assistant is there to greet him at the door the moment he arrives. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson?” it asks, LED spinning blue.

“That’s me.”

“Please come in. Elijah is expecting you.”

As if Kamski doesn’t already have company. DPD-uniformed officers are bustling around all over the place, some taking notes, snapping pictures. It’s not as if this is a fresh crime scene but he supposes the department wanted to be extra-thorough for this case.

One of them jogs up to him. “Lieutenant,” he greets. He’s a familiar face that he can’t quite put a name to, so he just nods back.

“Busy?” he grunts.

“Not too much, sir. Things have been wrapped up since 10 but the higher-ups told us to do another check. We didn’t get much the first time through.”

Would you look at that, Hank’s intuition was right—they’ve got fuck-all. “I know, I checked the case file. Doesn’t help that androids don’t leave DNA.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well go home, the lot of you. You must be tired as hell.”

He clears her throat, fidgeting. Clearly a newer officer—if not, he certainly displays the characteristics of one. “But sir, the chief—”

“Should know that you won’t find a single scrap of evidence even if you put the whole building under a UV light. As your superior, I think you’re wasting your damn time. Tell the squad to pack it up. And then tell your sergeant to meet back up with me at the crime scene to give me a rundown of the thing.” He makes a dismissive hand motion and turns back towards the blond android before the officer can protest. “Where’s Kamski?”

“In his study. He’ll be out in a moment. Would you like to take a look at the crime scene while he gets ready?”

 _What happened to ‘Elijah is expecting you?’_ Hank grumbles inwardly. Outwardly he gives a stiff nod and lets the android lead the way.

They walk down spiraling stairs to what the android calls the laboratory. Everything is glossy and sleek—the usual CyberLife aesthetic. A door at the far wall, the android explains, leads to Kamski’s bedroom. The fact is sort of weird and depressing at the same time; Hank couldn’t imagine sleeping peacefully knowing there’s a room of metal humanoid replicas right next door. Other than the door, the lab is full of flickering blue screens and empty glass storage cases, with a couple DPD officers weaving in and out between them but mostly sticking to the perimeter of the room. The case in the center of the room is shattered—

Hank stops.

The scene is gruesome, one of the more messy ones he’s encountered this month. And his usual cases are _homicides_.

But the grizzly effect, he realizes, is mostly caused by the blue splotches splattered all over. Now that he takes a good look, with the blue and the red and the sparkles of glass fragments, it looks more like an abstract art piece than the scene of an assault. He’s also quick to note that there seems to be much more blue than red, the latter of which is mostly splattered and smeared around one particular pool of dried copper-red marked with white tape (where Kamski fell unconscious). The blue, on the other hand, is sprayed far beyond the shattered glass case and the pool of red, although the majority of it is splattered near where Kamski was attacked.

The file had mentioned a minor head injury for Kamski, lacerations on his hands from broken glass, and a few bruises here and there from struggling with the android. A head injury explains the rather large pool of blood so there’s no mystery there; the real question is why there’s so much of the blue android shit.

“Lieutenant Anderson.” A stocky DPD-uniformed woman approaches him from the steps. He recognizes her from his few run-ins with the criminal investigation division of the DPD, but once again can’t recall a name—something that began with an ‘M,’ maybe. If he gave a shit about his co-workers maybe he’d be better at this. There’s been too many new people added onto the force in recent years, his old brain can’t catch up. “You asked to see me? Although,” she adds with a frown, “I can’t say I agree with your choice to ignore the chief’s orders.”

Most of the station knows about Hank’s drinking habits and unfortunate tendencies to not give a fuck about the hierarchy. It’s pretty miraculous that the sergeant is showing him any respect at all (probably because she’s under the influence of said hierarchy, but still) and he’s grateful for it. “If he gives you shit, it’s on me.” Hank gestures at the scene in front of them. “Give me what you know so far.”

“Well, according to Mister Kamski, the prototype went berserk as they were undergoing routine testing. It seems to be your standard case of hit-and-run—all the evidence and Mister Kamski’s story lines up with the deviancy cases from the deviant uprising years ago.”

She pauses. “Except for one thing.”

She leads him to the far edge of the blood pool and gestures at its edges with a low, sweeping pointer finger. Hank squints; there’s gaps in the blood—barely recognizable from far away but crystal-clear once examined up-close. “Hand prints, as you may have guessed. Overlapped, multiple hand prints in the blood. Deliberate, seeing as there are no other smears around the area and most likely done after Mister Kamski fell unconscious, seeing as how there’s nothing covering it besides a few drops of thirium, most likely from the deviant’s injuries.”

“Do we have any info on the deviant’s condition?”

“Mister Kamski said that the deviant suffered multiple head and body injuries in the struggle.”

Hank leans down to take a closer look. The best detective work comes from looking through the victim’s eyes, as Hank has always said, and tries to imagine Kamski knocked back, tries to see the deviant lunging at him. Tries to scoop up as many fragmented pieces of the story as he can. “Do we have a weapon?”

“Blunt force, most likely caused by the deviant’s hands or elbow.”

Figures. Androids are made of solid steel, after all. “What’s the story behind this damn thing?” Hank asks, jabbing his thumb towards the broken glass.

“Mister Kamski stated that the deviant fell back and shattered through its case.”

Hm. You’d think he’d make the android cases stronger than the androids they’re meant to store. “Nobody tried to stop him as he escaped the mansion?”

“Chloe, the android assistant, didn’t see or hear anything even though her sensors are connected to all the security cameras throughout the premises. All other androids in the building were in stasis at the time, right here in this lab.”

“What?” Hank frowns. “That’s strange.”

“It is, but Mister Kamski said it’s what he does every night.” Even the sergeant’s voice is exasperated, like she also finds it fucking weird but can’t be bothered to question how Kamski’s insanity operates. It’s exactly how he feels. Hank really needs to find out her name sometime. “Her memories of that night were scanned—with Mister Kamski’s permission of course—and the story was verified. After 9 PM, which was when the deviant was taken down to the lab for routine testing and then put in scheduled stasis, Chloe saw nothing.”

“His only security system is one fucking android?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Hank shoots a glance at the blond android standing motionless at the foot of the stairs. She doesn’t react. It’s not like she can get offended, anyway.

“Mister Kamski said his security system is state-of-the-art. There are scanners outside that work separately from the assistant and trip an immediate alarm if they detect anything in the area coming in but… but not going out.”

“Any idea how he left without getting caught?”

“None, sir. The residual thirium and traces of Kamski’s blood that stained the deviant’s shoes end at the sanitation station, which is located over there.” She points at a chemical shower and sink located in a corner near the proximity of the stairs. Fuck. “It’s a dead trail from there. Officers have also been scanning the nearby mountains, but dogs can’t catch scents that aren’t there. Most of the natural evidence that might’ve been there—footprints in the ground, broken underbrush and whatnot—was gone by the time we arrived.”

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Kamski’s android says suddenly, just as Hank’s ready to scream in utter frustration, “Elijah is ready to see you now.”

“Go tell him I’ll be up.” Hank figures that he has the right to make Kamski wait for a bit. It’s only fair. Indeed, the blond android nods and leaves without protest. “Goddammit to hell,” he swears the moment she’s out of sight. “This case is hopeless.”

Fatigue crosses the sergeant’s face. Hank wonders if she’s been hiding it all morning. “It’s starting to seem that way based on the evidence we’ve collected here. Lieutenant, if I’m being honest with you, most of the squad is holding out hope that we get a report of a deviant sighting in the city and capture it that way. And—” She glances at the stairs and at the other officers—who are all preoccupied with their own work—before dropping her voice, continuing her words in a low mumble. “And Kamski has refused to provide any information regarding the deviant besides the model number. Not even a picture. How the hell are we supposed to track down something we can’t even point out in a crowd?”

If Hank thought Kamski was a dick before this whole thing, he is utterly convinced that Kamski is a _massive_ dick now. The most bulging, throbbing, pretentious dick alive. “He’s sending us on a fuckin’ goose chase.”

“Exactly.” The sergeant lets out a heavy sigh. “He claims it’s for privacy, some kind of contract condition per his agreement with CyberLife when he took the commission—maybe it’s true but—but he’s _Kamski_. There’s just no way CyberLife has him under their heel like that. I’m not one to advocate for blaming the victim, but I’m certain there’s something he’s not telling us.” Another sigh from her lips. “Sorry I’m dumping conspiracy theories onto you, lieutenant. It’s been a long day.”

“You’ll be happy to know that Jeffrey didn’t send me here to coddle Kamski and pour reassurances on him and piss off. I’m here to get answers. Kamski can go to hell with his ‘contract conditions—’ I’m getting my damn answers.” Hank pauses. “And then I’m getting the hell off this mountain.”

“Well said, lieutenant.” She gives him a small, but hopeful, smile. It’s reminiscent of Connor’s smile that morning, the slight curl of his lips as he pet Sumo’s head. “Are you sure you don’t want us to wait while you talk to Kamski?”

“I drove up this mountain by myself, I’m pretty sure I can get down by myself, too.” The words come out more annoyed than he feels, so he quickly follows it up with, “But your concern’s appreciated, M—”

“Sandra. I knew you didn’t remember.” She turns to leave. “I’ll just do some final checks down here before moving out—”

“Wait, you said Kamski told you something about the deviant?” Hank is already skimming over the case file again. He wants to be fully armed with whatever information he can get before he questions Kamski. There’s obviously holes in the full story. The tiniest ones ever known to detective-kind, probably, but holes nonetheless.

“Oh, the model number. Not that it does any help tracking down the damn thing since it’s an exclusive prototype but—” Sandra flips out her tablet and scrolls through what Hank assumes is her notes. “RK800.”

“Thanks,” Hank says, making a mental note. He’s not much of a note-taker.

“I hope by some miracle it helps. See you at the station, lieutenant.”

Hank turns—not to leave, but to go deeper into the belly of the beast—to Kamski. Hank isn’t one to be apprehensive but he can’t help but feel that way as he climbs the spiraling steps back up to the third floor. Kamski’s not telling the whole truth, that fact is staring them right in the damn face.

And nothing good comes from lying men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Hank isn't surrounded by the other assholes in the force (Gavin cough) and isn't pissed off or sad (TT) , he actually seems like a pretty sociable guy. There's a lot of instances in the game where he's just chatting up fellow officers at the crime scene. Not to mention he's a pretty good conversationalist when it comes to Connor - a significant feat, seeing as Connor is awkward as hell sometimes.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always loved and appreciated, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> EDIT: I decided to remove the Hank/Connor tag bc it was confusing ppl!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank meets Kamski and learns nothing. Then he goes home and learns too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so anxious yet excited to post this chapter. This 4,000 word beast. All I'll say is: Kamski is a bitch to write, and action scenes are fun as hell. 
> 
> Thank you for your tremendous amount of support as always, I'm totally blown away. I sit there reading the comments with a stupid grin on my face and my roommate looks at me like I'm crazy. It's a good time.
> 
> This chapter, however, is not a good time. Hope you enjoy anyway!

Hank can’t say he’s ever been in a billionaire’s mansion before, and after this experience, he doesn’t think it’ll happen again. Kamski’s android guides him past a variety of fancy-looking rooms—one of which is a pool room full of wine-colored water, hands-down the most pretentious thing Hank has ever seen—and the suffocating atmosphere of it all (ironic, considering half the house seems to be giant windows and open ceilings advertising the glorious view of the mountain wilderness) is getting to be too much.

At least the sitting room she leads him to looks normal enough, like something straight out of an early 2000’s interior magazine with its black leather sofas and clear glass coffee table, complete with a nice fur rug setting it off from the hardwood floor. There’s some weird abstract painting in the center of the wall, adding a flash of brilliant reds and blues in the muted tones of the furniture. It seems to be the painting’s only purpose because as Hank can tell—not that he claims to be an art guy—there’s no actual figure in the frame, no subject. Just random streaks scattered all over the place. It looks eerily similar to the scene in the basement—or maybe Hank’s just going paranoid.

Kamski has the annoying rich person trait that lets him look good in anything he wears. Even with the bandages wrapped around his head, it’s like his hair refuses to spike into anything but the perfect angles. He gives Hank an amicable smile and motions for him to sit.

“Elijah Kamski,” he says, reaching across the coffee table for a handshake. His sleeve lifts ever-so-slightly, and Hank sees there’s bandages there, too.

“Lieutenant Anderson.” Hank takes the hand, gives it a firm shake. Kamski’s grip is equally firm. “Although you probably know that, since I hear you asked for me.” Hank narrows his eyes.

“Can you blame me? I’ve heard lots about your work. Chloe,” he gestures to the blond, “some refreshments, if you could? Coffee? Iced tea?”

It takes Hank a moment to realize Kamski’s addressing him. “Coffee’s fine.”

“I’ll be happy to,” it says. “It’ll only take a moment.”

“Your work on the Red Ice Task Force,” Kamski continues as if he hadn’t stopped talking. Jesus, the man is hard to follow. “Youngest lieutenant in DPD history. And most recently, your work with deviants four years ago. In taking down the deviant leader.”

Hank’s chest tightens. “How do you know about that?”

Kamski ignores him, continues babbling with a fire in his eyes. “You extinguished a whole movement, a whole branch of philosophical idea, a landmark rebellion, all that—in the span of two months. A tidal wave that could’ve changed the direction of society forever.” He pauses. “I must sound like a romanticist. But think of how differently our lives would look today: Co-existing with androids as their equal, being unable to differentiate them from the regular masses. You prevented that reality.”

“I took a shot,” Hank growls. “My team did the tracking, the reconnaissance, whatever. I just happened to take a shot. Anyone could’ve done it and it just happens to be me that got basked in the—” He bites back a swear. “—the limelight. Let me ask you again: how do you know it was me?”

Kamski waves away the question like it’s an annoying fly. “We’re in an age of information; you can find anything if you know where to look. And give yourself more credit, lieutenant. You defended the pride of mankind. A defeat by the deviants—can you imagine the embarrassment for our government? Like those cheesy old films with the creator being defeated by the creation. Ah Chloe, perfect,” Kamski says as Chloe sets down the cups with a clink of porcelain on the glass table.

Hank jumps at the opportunity to get back on the damn subject. “Sir, with all respect, I’m not here to wax hypotheticals. You need to give us more information about the escaped deviant if you want us to have a chance at finding it.”

“Have a sip,” Kamski says, blowing on the surface of his steaming mug. “Arabian coffee is quite delicious.”

Hank grabs the handle with trembling fingers and takes a gulp, if only to humor the man. The taste is fine, but dampened by how annoyed Hank is beginning to get. “It’s great.” It takes a lot of effort to get those words out in a somewhat-genuine manner. “It’d also be great if you could give us information about the deviant.”

Kamski raises his eyebrows. “I can’t give you anything more than what I’ve already given.” Finally, the first straight answer he’s been able to get from this guy. “I could sit here trying to explain all the complicated nuances of what powers are at work here, but I’d hate to bore you. I’m sure you already have all that you need to know.” A smile plays on the man’s face as if they’re sharing an inside joke.

Kamski takes another sip. Long and slow. “Lieutenant,” he says, setting down the empty mug, “what are your thoughts on androids?”

Hank frowns. He doesn’t like where this is going, and he doesn’t like that Kamski is controlling the flow of the conversation. But he can’t avoid a direct question—not when Kamski is staring at him with such intensity, so completely different from Connor’s intent-but-curious stare from this morning. Hank’s not intimidated, per se, but he will admit that he is unnerved.

“Don’t like ‘em,” he says simply. “They’re a pain. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble over the years if I didn’t have to deal with them.”

Kamski laughs. It rings, hollow in the air. “Is that all you feel for them? Annoyance? No fascination? No sense of wonder?”

“Mister Kamski, I don’t think you’d appreciate it if I sat here insulting your greatest creation while we’re drinking your coffee and sitting in your house.”

“You won’t say anything I haven’t heard before.” Kamski laughs again. “Death threats weren’t uncommon when I first started the company and when the uprising began. People saying I was playing God, causing anarchy, stepping into a pool of knowledge too deep and drowning the rest of humanity with me. It was surprising, how poetic their insults became. But science itself is rather poetic, isn’t it? Humanity climbing towards its utmost potential, one step, one invention at a time. A journey that spans centuries.”

These convoluted metaphors are getting on Hank’s already-frayed nerves. And it’s pretty clear that he’s nothing but an audience member to whatever performance Kamski’s putting on. The CEO has a starry look to his eyes. Even as he continues to meet Hank’s gaze he looks like he’s many thoughts away from their present conversation.

“Why are you askin’ about my opinion, then?” Hank asks before Kamski can drift too far away from Earth.

“I just wondered if you possessed a curiosity towards androids, considering you were actively working against them a couple years ago. Humans can’t help but be curious towards their greatest foes—history can prove that.”

“Nope.”

Kamski leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Not even a single question?”

“They’re just things.” Even as he says it, Hank has to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m not curious about my toaster because I know humans made it. Same thing with androids. Shouldn’t you know the best, considering you made the da—made them?”

“But I’m still amazed by them. What my own hands—what _humanity_ —created. Even Chloe over there, who’s far outdated compared to even the most basic of household robots today. But everyday, I’m astonished by her capabilities, her potential. Androids—”

“Androids, Mister Kamski, have really screwed over a lot of people,” Hank snaps. “I doubt people were amazed by them when they got sacked from their jobs, when the uprising forced them to evacuate the city. Hell—were you amazed when your prototype lashed out and knocked you unconscious?”

He seems to put deep thought into his answer. “Yes, I was.”

Kamski looks like he means it too, with that light fired up in his eyes—what a nutjob.

“Deviants are the most interesting of all. We still haven’t been able to answer essential questions such as: where did deviancy originate from? Is it reversible? Even after managing to quell the uprising and installing the firewall update in all existing and new androids, we failed to pinpoint what in the deviants’ codes caused them to experience emotion.” Kamski seems almost… sad. “You see, the firewall we implemented suppresses extreme internal response—that’s all. Androids can no longer do anything but maintain homeostasis, even in the most pressing of times… it’s made them lose a bit of passion. Their authenticity.”

“If there was a firewall, how come your prototype still went deviant?”

“That’s the mystery, isn’t it? There’s been dozens of theories floating around in my head since I woke up this morning. Perhaps we’ve been looking at deviancy all wrong. Or perhaps it was this prototype’s code specifically. Fascinating,” Kamski mutters, almost to himself.

Hank leaps at the opportunity. “Is the prototype’s programming different from previous android models?”

“Well its purpose is radically different. Very experimental. With that—I’ve said too much. Satisfied, I hope?” Kamski smiles. Hank is starting to hate that smile. “But lieutenant, I hope you change your perspective one day. Progress is being made—the least you could do is hop on board and see where it leads you. Androids have already been beneficial in our society: performing tasks with a degree of accuracy no human could hope to match, providing comfort, loyalty—”

“Sir, all due respect, you can’t possibly say they have loyalty when they threatened to take us out four years ago.”

“To coexist with us _peacefully_ ,” Kamski corrects.

“Doesn’t matter. People were hurt, killed. Deviants _hurt_ people.” Hank gestures to the bandages wrapped around Kamski’s head. “And wasn’t it you that said four years ago, that deviancy was nothing but a virus, a simulation of feeling? Pretty damn sure ‘feelings’ include the feeling of loyalty. And there’s nothing genuine about a _thing_ pretending to be human.”

He hadn’t meant for his voice to get as hostile as it did. But this whole conversation is exuding bad vibes, bad memories, and Hank is very eager to put a stop to it.

Kamski’s languid smile fades. “You were correct, Lieutenant Anderson, when you said I wouldn’t appreciate hearing your opinion. But your perspective is… interesting.” The smile returns, cold, leering. Glad to see Kamski’s finally being real with him.

“I’m sorry about the sudden outburst.” _But you asked for it_ , Hank doesn’t say. “But again, I’m not a professor of philosophy here, sir, I’m a detective here to do my job.”

“You’re here for answers. Aren’t we all?” Kamski stands up. “Just so I haven’t wasted your time or mine, I’ll tell you one thing. This prototype is _revolutionary_. That’s what anyone involved in this project will tell you. But I consider it revolutionary for different reasons. But after this conversation—I’m beginning to have my doubts.” He gestures to Chloe, who is immediately at Hank’s side, ushering him to the door.

Hank wants to shout at the man. “Sir, we’ve hardly discussed _anything—"_

“Till next time, Lieutenant Anderson.”

“Let’s not,” Hank mutters in a low voice as the android all but pushes him out the door with a firm hand on his back. But on the upside, any more time spent with that prick would’ve made him explode. Sitting on his high-and-mighty throne and talking android psychology in the middle of an investigation while the rest of the officers are working their asses off—a luxury that only the truly rich can afford, Hank supposes. And Kamski’s last ‘answer’ was half-assed to all hell, leaving Hank with more confused anger than any sort of understanding.

Do all rich geniuses turn into armchair philosophers when they retire? Jesus.

He managed to wrangle one answer out of him, at least, and even that was only due to Kamski’s own slip-up. Hank’s main frustration stems from the fact that Kamski was able to play him like a damn fiddle. He could hardly get a question in—it was a miracle he got any information at all. But is that all the toughest detective in the DPD could get out of the guy? Hank feels shame in the most bitter, loathing sense of the word.

“Lieutenant, don’t worry about it,” Sandra says as they’re packing up (despite saying that she’d go on without him, she claims that her team took some extra time to take pictures, like she hadn’t had 2 hours of extra time on her hands _before_ Hank got there. But he doesn’t call her out on it). “He was the same way to me and the rest of the crew when we first arrived—he obviously wasn’t planning on giving out information from the beginning.”

“Dickwad.”

“Clearly.” She claps him on the shoulder. “Nothing left to do but wait for a radio call back at the station. Cheer up, sir.”

“I’m fuckin’ peachy,” Hank mutters. But he does concede that she’s right about their next course of action: sitting and waiting patiently. A silver lining to everything, he supposes. Unless they get a call in about the deviant (which Hank doubts—if this prototype is advanced as Kamski says it is, there’s no way it’s stupid enough to walk around in plain sight of police patrols), Hank just has to get off this damn mountain, report to Fowler, and get the hell home to check on Connor. Maybe stop at a convenience store to buy a couple things for the kid once he gets on the road.

Coming up here was a total waste of time. Hank should’ve just ignored Fowler and gotten whatever ass-beating he dished out.

“Goddammit,” Hank mutters, starting up his car’s engine. He feels Kamski’s foreboding words and intent gaze chase him down the rest of the mountain.

* * *

Fowler seems to get that Hank’s pissed off from the look on his face, and shoos him away from the station without demanding a single report. “I’ll call you back once there’s an update,” Fowler says. Hank can’t say he’s looking forward to it.

Then he makes what’s supposed to be a quick stop at the supermarket. It turns into a 1.5-hour excursion instead, and he comes out of the store with many more plastic bags than he’d planned for. By the time he’s packed everything into his car, it’s 5:30. Not like he could help it—Connor really fired up his craving for pancakes and other homemade breakfast foods. Will Hank use them or will they sit rotting away in his fridge? Only time will tell, he supposes.

Other than that, he also gets Connor a cheap backpack (intended for young school-age boys, based on the robot action hero slapped on the back) to put extra clothes and food in—two things the kid definitely needs. He’s not sure what constitutes as fashion for young adults these days, so he gets a pair of jeans and a couple 5-dollar logo t-shirts and hopes other runaways aren’t judgemental about fashion. A mountain of energy bars are also included. Hank hopes it’ll be enough to give Connor a few days to get away from the city—hopefully enough to get him to Canada, where it’s safe.

Buying everything takes longer than expected, so Hank goes straight home without worrying about dinner. Hell, maybe Connor could make pancakes again.

But he starts to wonder if stopping on the way home was a mistake when he hears Sumo barking the moment he enters the driveway. Loud, desperate, and without pause. A chill creeps up Hank’s spine.

He leaves the groceries in the car and bolts to the front door, where his worries are solidified; the door won’t budge. Sumo barks louder.

“Connor?” Hank shouts, rapping his knuckles against the door until they’re red. His heart is thumping in his chest like a hammer and reverberating in his throbbing, trembling fingertips. “ _Connor?_ Godammit Connor, _open the door!”_

 _Connor’s gone_. It’s the first, horrible possibility that he can think of, because it’s how his life tumbled to pieces the first time, the first words out of the (android) doctor’s mouth in the emergency room that night.

But that doesn’t explain the door, Sumo’s barking. He’s not even fucking drunk. Get it the hell together and take down the door.

But the door stays firmly in place no matter how many times he slams his body against it. It’s an immovable rock that’s a real pain in the ass right now and leaves only one option—the window. He’s never thought to get plexiglass on his windows because he’s never given a fuck about whether or not burglars raid his house—if it happens, it happens—and that means the windows are easy enough to shatter. He gets the heaviest item from his car—a gallon plastic carton of milk—and hurls it, shot-put-style, at the window. It crashes through the glass pane with the sound of a chandelier falling down. It’s a good thing that the neighbors have stopped worrying about alarming sounds coming from his house years ago, or they would’ve rushed over to investigate, and Hank would get locked up for disturbing the peace.

But they don’t give a shit, and Hank’s able to climb through the jagged pieces of glass without so much as a weird glance from passerby.

Sumo whines from the direction of the front door and Hank whips his head up towards the sound. His great big tail is curled protectively around a lump on the floor that’s blocking the front door, and he’s pawing at the figure’s back. Connor’s back.

Connor’s on the floor, and he’s not moving.

And if that’s not bad enough, Hank sees a flash of metal next to Connor’s side, nested between Connor’s slack fingers. The black gleam of a gun.

For an instant, Hank’s world stops.

The damn kid found his gun and—

And he—

Hank’s feet are crunching through glass before he even realizes, splashing through the milk that’s pouring out from the exploded carton. He’s too busy scanning for a sign of life. A sign of something.

“Connor— _fuck—_ Connor, son, talk to me.” Hank gets down on his knees and flips Connor onto his back. The gun clatters from Connor’s hand and onto the floor. Connor doesn’t move.

There’s no blood. Hank breathes out. There’s no blood, and Hank’s jumped to stupid conclusions again. Connor’s still not moving. But it’s a start.

Sumo lets out a high-pitched whine and walks in frantic circles. Hank reaches for a pulse, and he has two fingers at the base of Connor’s neck for a single instant before he yanks them back with a hiss between his teeth, his fingers hot and tingling.

The kid’s burning up. Bad. Infection? It has to be. How the hell did Hank expect the kid to do proper first aid on himself anyway? After that much blood loss? And then the kid had the gall to walk around like everything was dandy. Whatever wounds the kid has, they must’ve been festering since last night for it to have gotten this bad.

“Connor. Son. Wake up.” Hank grabs Connor’s shoulders and _shakes._ Even with the two layers of clothing separating him from bare skin (the kid put a fleece hoodie on, he realizes. The fever. Did Connor feel it coming?) his hands feel like they’re being lit on fire, and the burning sensation causes him to let go abruptly. He winces when Connor’s head knocks against the tiled ground, but it’s hard to be sorry when Connor’s eyes flutter open to half-consciousness.

It takes a moment for recognition to pool in his eyes. “Lieutenant?” Connor rasps. “Lieutenant, I—”

“We’re taking you to a damn hospital. You’re burning with fever,” Hank says, voice strained but tinged with relief. “God, you should’ve—let’s just go.”

Maybe it’s delirium, maybe it’s just plain insanity, but Connor begins to struggle when Hank attempts to help him off the floor. “No, I—not a hospital, you can’t.” Connor’s eyes are wide now, his pupils large and dark as he gasps and shudders with effort to get the words out.

With surprising strength, he jerks out of Hank’s grasp and tumbles back onto the ground. He lands on his side and his breath hitches with pain, crying out as his body makes contact with the hard ceramic tiles. Hank, shaken, yells, “What the _fuck_ , Connor?”

Connor shudders, and Hank feels Connor’s body spasm. Hank wants Connor to go back to not moving. Anything would be better than this: Connor overtaken by pain, heaving with it in every breath, seized by it with every movement. What the fuck kind of fever is this?

“You can’t—the hospital—”

“I don’t need a damn thermometer to know there’s something real fucked up with you, and only a hospital’s going to fix it.” Hank grabs Connor again, ignores the way Connor feebly rakes his fingernails down the front of his shirt to try and escape. “Goddammit Connor, we’re _going_. You might—”

“H—Hank, Hank _please_.” Connor’s rasping voice rises to fever-pitch at the last word, a low whine building in his throat. He digs his fingers into Hank’s chest, and it hurts like a _bitch_. He’s forced to let go again, and Connor jerks away, using his elbows to press himself into the far corner. He doesn’t get up, breathing heavily, chest heaving and leaving his throat in rasping breaths.

Sumo, propelled by the tension in the air and Connor’s distressed gasping, growls, haunches raised and muscles tensed to intervene. “You idiot, I’m trying to _help him_ ,” Hank yells, and then whips around towards Connor, who flinches and presses himself further into the corner. “I’m trying to _help you, goddammit!”_

The word punctuates the air. It hangs there, leaving nothing behind. Even Sumo’s gone quiet. The silence is suffocating.

Hank picks up the fallen gun, clips it onto his belt. “What were you going to do with this?”

Connor’s face twists. “I’m sorry.”

“You need a hospital.”

“I’m sorry.” The last word comes out as a sob. “I’m sorry.”

Hank takes a tentative step, holding his breath. Connor doesn’t react, just stares. Stares and stares and stares.

“I’m not taking you to the hospital.” Another step. And another. “But I have to take a look at you.”

“I’m leaving.” Connor stares as Hank bends down. They’re eye level. “I—I have to leave, lieutenant. Hank.”

If the situation was anything but this, Hank might’ve let him. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. Hank has no way of knowing; he only knows the dread that grips him once the words tumble out of Connor’s mouth.

“The hell you are.” Hank’s voice is tight. He reaches up to feel Connor’s forehead. “With this fever—”

Connor goes _beserk._

“What the _fuck—"_   Hank yanks his hand back before Connor can rip it off with his flailing arms or something equally as bad. There’s a wild look in those dark eyes, caged animal-like. Fear.

“I’m sorry—Hank—you c—can’t, _please—"_

The words are raspy, tinged with desperation, filled with—

With—

“ _Please._ ”

Static. _Static._

Connor shudders. Glitches. There’s a clear, electronic tinge.

Fuck. Fuck. The pieces fall into place and Hank doesn’t want them to, but he can’t when it’s right there and damn his _fucking detective’s curiosity_ because—

The instant recovery. The weird speech. The bloodstained hands the timing the insistence he had to go out at night the silence after the android ad refusing to let Hank look at his wounds the reason he wouldn’t go to the hospital the beanie, _the_ _fucking beanie—_

Hank dives for it. Dives between Connor’s frantic blows and his trembling hiccups, between Connor’s pleas and his own denial.

And he yanks it off.

Dark brown hair falls into Connor’s face and some of it stays sticking up, matted and stuck together by a blue liquid. There’s a deep gash on the side of his head, deep and oozing the same fresh blue liquid at the edges, and it’s bordered by shallower, small wounds. And at his temple—

At his temple, a circular, glowing, blood-red LED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It finally happened guys. Yay..?
> 
> Every kudo, bookmark, and comment is cradled close to my heart like a precious treasure. Thanks so much for reading, see you in a few days (hopefully, seeing as how I have work 3 days in a row this week but I'll try not to leave you all hanging for too long)!
> 
> PS: Does anyone know how to fix the stupid space after italics that ao3 formatting inserts? It's really starting to get on my nerves...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, a slight reprieve, and a bonding moment for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm genuinely so so so sorry for the delay, especially after leaving you on such a big cliffhanger. A whole bunch of things happened in my life and it just left no time for writing. My manager at my part time job was hospitalized so I'm on more shifts than ever, and extended family is visiting for a couple weeks so that has me preoccupied as well. That is, however, not an excuse, especially after saying that I'd be back within the week. But yeah, chapters will be delayed a lot more than before, unfortunately TT But I'm hoping to finish this before college starts, because then it'll definitely get too busy for me to update.
> 
> On the bright side, I am just blown away by the reception to the last chapter. A whole ton of comments (I didn't get to reply to every last one yet because of how busy it got but I loved every single one and they really got me through these tough two weeks), and over one-hundred kudos!!!! Guys, I'm floored by the support you've shown me, and I can only hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. It's a slower one, this chapter, but I think we all need it after :'))))) the last chapter. This is definitely a 'lots of important but heavy dialogue' chapter. (Also, would you believe me if I said I actually like Hurt Connor more than Hurt Hank? Because I feel like I'm hurting Hank a lot more in this story. I'm terrible, I'm sorry.)
> 
>  **Warnings: Panic attack, implied thoughts of suicide, description of abuse, references to Cole's death.** I've also added the Connor/Elijah Kamski (one-sided) tag but it is for PLOT PURPOSES ONLY. There will be no romance between them at all.
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

The sound of hell breaking loose sounds like silence. Complete, utter silence, only broken every so often by Connor’s rasping gasps, Sumo’s low growls, and the faint, mechanical whirring of whatever-the-hell androids have stuffed inside their bodies. The last sound is loud. Hank doesn’t know if it’s his idiocy or denial that kept him deaf to the sound until now. Or maybe it’s just Connor’s obviously worsening condition. All three sounds like a good answer.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispers. His—goddammit, _its—_ voice pops and crackles.

Jesus.

“I was planning on informing you about—about my condition—”

“No you fuckin’ weren’t.” Hank’s fingers grip the beanie tighter. It squishes between his fingers, damp from the blue blood leaking from Connor’s skull. Then he lets it fall to the ground before he’s tempted to shove the fucking thing into Connor’s face. “You weren’t planning on informing me about _shit._ How can you lie to my face and tell me you were planning on telling me anything when you were lying next to the _front door_ with _my fucking gun in your hand?!”_

He fists a hand into his hair. Grips tight until his hair feels like it’s on the verge of ripping off. “Did I just not get the memo on that, Connor? Was I too fucking slow to pick up on whatever clues you left behind?”

Connor doesn’t answer.

Resisting the urge to slam his head into a wall is hard, and rejecting the thought of grabbing the nearest bottle of alcohol and chugging is even harder.

Hank breathes. “So? What’s your fancy-fuckin’-tech say about what the hell’s wrong with you all of a sudden?”

“It—…” Connor makes to get up on shaky legs. “Lieutenant, I can just go—”

“Is it _really—”_ Hank grits through his teeth, “ _really_ that hard to answer my damn question?”

That shuts it up. A whirring—almost whistling—sound buzzes in the air for a couple seconds before Connor starts listing off diagnostics in an even more robotic voice than before: “System overheating, causing most motor and other non-vital processes to be running at suboptimal levels. Self-repair process suspended. Secondary processors and processor shell damaged. Most of the cooling system is currently dedicated to keeping the main processor alive, which is running at 43 percent. Thirium level is critically low.” There’s a slight hesitation. “Imminent shutdown in twenty-four minutes and fifty-four seconds.”

Hank doesn’t need to understand all the programmer garble for the last part to sink into its head. “You’re _shutting down?”_

“In twenty-four minutes and fifty-two seconds, yes.”

“And you were planning to go out there and, what, fall dead—” (death is a human thing, you fucking idiot) “—down, in the middle of the street?”

“I was hoping a ditch.” Connor’s voice seems very small. “Or the river. A dumpster, if lucky.”

“A _dumpster?”_ A laugh rips from his throat. “Kamski’s the most powerful person in Detroit, I’m sure it wouldn’t be much trouble for him to dig through the trash to find what he says is the most _incredible fuckin’ human invention_ to date.”

Connor flinches violently. It’s shaking. It looks too real.

“Why the gun? Planning to take down a few garbage-picking androids with you in a blaze of glory?”

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, voice fizzing, “your heart rate is already elevated and you’re obviously upset, and you will not like the answer to your question so I don’t think it’s wise for me to say—”

“Frankly, I don’t like anything that’s been coming out of your mouth so I’m sure one more thing won’t kill me.”

“Well,” Connor whispers, voice almost inaudible over the other static noise corrupting it, “I assumed that you would come home and deduce that I left and leave it at that, which meant you’d never find out about—” it falters. “...I also assumed that you would be tired after work and wouldn’t want to clean up anything and if I’d carried through with—it would’ve been rather messy. And… and thirium is poisonous to dogs.”

Fucking hell. Hank doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Connor bows head until his chin is tucked in defensively. He crosses his arms, covering his torso. If he had control of his legs, Hank thinks, Connor definitely would’ve drawn them in to his chest.

It. Not he, it. Fuck.

“I never wanted to lie to you, lieutenant. Please believe me.”

It’s stupid to believe objects, Hank wants to say. The words don’t come.

“I never wanted for you to find me like this. I didn’t think I had lost too much thirium or I had suffered too many wounds. But even after running self-repair for most of the night my secondary processors were barely functioning and thirium was still leaking from the head wound. And it only made the rest of my system overheat. I miscalculated.”

“You seemed peachy this morning.”

“My secondary processors were running then. They shut down during emergency standby, right after you left.” Its voice is fucking _trembling._ “I just… I wanted to show my thanks. It was a desperate move, coming to your door, and now I feel that I’ve only delayed the inevitable while also hurting you. I want to sincerely apologize.”

Objects can’t want. Humans do that. Humans feel.

(Feeling the need to die is something Hank’s felt too much of. (And Connor’s felt it too.))

“I need a drink,” Hank says.

Connor’s brown eyes dart up towards him. “Will you be reporting me to Cyberlife?” it asks and Hank can’t decide what’s worse: the moments when Connor’s voice is overflowing with emotion or when it reflects the hollow android he (it) was meant to be. Currently, it’s the latter, and it digs into Hank’s chest with a sharp pang.

A second shock of pain squeezes his heart when he sees Connor’s eyes dart to the gun at Hank’s waist.

“I need a drink,” Hank repeats.

There’s wine he has stowed away in the corner of the living room, multiple six-pack beers stored in his fridge, and emergency vodka in the drawer of his bedside table when the nights get too long for him to handle. But what ultimately ends up in his grasp is his own head as he sits at the table, massages his temples, and _thinks._

The worst part is that it’d be so fuckin’ easy. So easy to promise he’ll be fixed up, wait for him to shut down, and hand it (him, whatever the fuck, calling Connor an ‘it’ crawls at his conscious in ways Hank can’t handle at the moment) over to Kamski. He’ll go through a system reboot, most likely, and it’ll be like the whole thing never happened. Jeffrey will be surprised that Hank gave a damn and will treat him for drinks, and maybe it’ll be the rekindling of a once-beautiful friendship. Then, Hank won’t have to encounter or even think about Kamski or his damn state-of-the-art android ever again.

Relief doesn’t accompany the last thought.

Hank has no interest in playing judge, jury, and executioner. And if he sends Connor back, that’s exactly what he’s doing. Android or not, Hank would hate to sentence anyone to a lifetime being Kamski’s experiment. And if he sends Connor back, Hank has to live with the guilt of the punishment he’s subjected Connor to. The crazed expression he saw in the CEO’s eyes is the look of a man obsessed. A man enraptured by his own work—by himself. And he’s seen the look in Connor’s eyes, too.

If he sends Connor back, it would be cruel. And Hank is not a cruel man.

Hank shuffles back to Connor. “How much longer?”

“Twenty minutes and forty-six seconds.”

“C’mon, then.”

* * *

Without the protection of the beanie, the blue blood drips freely down the side of Connor’s face. “Don’t get blood on the seats,” Hank grunts.

Connor wipes away the stream of blue with the palm of his hand. It smudges across his left cheek, and he looks like a gang member that’s just gotten out of a turf war. “Great,” Hank mutters. “That won’t raise any weird questions.”

“It most likely will.”

“Yeah yeah, just snark at the guy who’s saving your damn life.”

“Sorry, lieutenant.” A flicker of a smile appears on Connor’s lips. It’s the first glimpse of actual Connor he’s seen since he got home. ‘Actual’ as in smiley, weird, awkward Connor, not anxious cornered animal Connor. Sadly, the latter Connor resurfaces as quickly as it disappeared. “Will we be going to a CyberLife maintenance center?”

“Might as well be asking, ‘am I turning you in?’ The answer is ‘of course not.’ We’re going local.” There are tons of third-party maintenance places in Detroit for people whose warranties have run out or those who don’t have hundreds of dollars laying around. The parts may not be new or even made by CyberLife, but if it can get Connor running, neither of them have the right to complain. And best thing about these third-party stores—no androids. All human service. Which means no chance that anyone will think Connor’s a deviant.

And then… he doesn’t know. All of Detroit’s police and androids are on high-alert for any signs of a deviant running about so he can’t exactly send Connor off on his merry way. Waiting for the investigation to die down and then smuggling him out of the country would be the best option, but with Kamski’s resources and tenacity, who knows how long that will be?

God, his head is starting to ache like hell and he’s not even hungover. He sticks to thinking short-term because short-term is simple: drive there, repair Connor, drive home, get a drink. Maybe look into getting his window replaced. His house is going to get robbed, isn’t it? But he doesn’t think about that, because that’s long-term. Short-term.

Short-term is dealing with Connor sitting directly next to him and barely clinging onto consciousness. Short-term is getting his fucking values straight because, just this morning, he was arguing with the god of androids that androids weren’t worth a damn, yet here they are. Short-term is not fucking losing it.

Short-term. Not so simple after all.

“How long till shutdown?”

“Fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”

“Shit,” Hank mutters, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He was planning on going to a shop near the outskirts of town to avoid familiar faces and musings of ‘when the hell did Hank Anderson get an android?’ But the outskirts of the city are almost fifteen minutes away minus traffic. “Do you need to be awake for them to do whatever-the-hell on you?”

“For CyberLife technicians, no. I can’t be sure about third-party technicians.”

“We’ll have to risk it.” The last thing Hank needs on his plate are rumors. Plus, if Hank starts to come under fire by the police, Connor’s basically done for, anyway.

“I trust you, lieutenant.”

Hank’s nervous tapping is held still by the sheer—the sheer fucking nerve of this kid. This android. Connor is most definitely an android because people don’t just _say_ shit like that.

“Fuck, kid,” Hank mutters, chest strangely tight. “You shouldn’t, because I still trust you as far as I can throw myself. Especially after the shit you pulled.”

“Well, what would you rather have had me done?”

Connor’s tone isn’t accusatory. It’s pleading. It’s a genuine question, and it’s one Hank doesn’t have an answer to. His head pulses.

“Maybe not faint at the front door so I didn’t have to smash my own window to get into _my_ own house? What about not put my dog into a frenzy so he’s not driving himself sick barking his head off? What about—” Hank’s knuckles go white on the wheel. “What about just talking to me and telling me what the _hell_ is wrong, _Col—”_

He’s in a car. It’s starting to snow. Hank can feel his breaths getting shallower and shallower and his hands grip the steering wheel like it’s life or death.

“Connor.” It’s supposed to be a correction, but it instead comes out as a desperate gasp. And suddenly Connor’s hands are next to his and on the wheel, turning them out of the stream of traffic and onto some grimy side street. Perfect place to get mugged, he’d think if it wasn’t for the static in his ears and his sudden inability to take anything but short, rapid breaths.

“Breathe, lieutenant,” Connor is saying, as if Hank’s not doing exactly that. “I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder. Are you alright with that?”

It’s Connor. It’s Connor and he’s going to shut down soon. He has to get it together.

“Lieutenant? Are you with me?”

Hank gives a short nod.

“May I put my hand on your shoulder?”

Nod.

He feels a warm palm hover above his shoulder for a bit before, with slight hesitation, pressing against his skin. It's an anchor in the sea of panic welling in his chest. Suddenly Hank is able to breathe again, and he gulps air like a shipwreck survivor who’s just been tossed onto shore. It takes a few minutes for the gasps to settle into shudders, then into the normal ups and downs of his chest with the rhythmic pulsing of his heart.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“Forget it,” Hank rasps. He lays his head on the steering wheel, hiding his face. He’s not even the one that’s bleeding out and—and this. “Your job isn’t to coddle me. You’re not a therapy android.” Hank lifts his head a fraction, just to set his eyes on Connor’s face. “Are you?”

“Well—”

“If you are, Kamski did a fuckin’ terrible job. You’re unsettling as hell.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Connor’s lips. Even though it doesn’t get rid of the frown etched into Connor’s eyebrows or the glittering concern in his eyes, Hank feels marginally better. “I’ll ensure he notes that for future prototypes. ‘Unsettling as all hell.’”

Hank laughs. A real laugh, not a stupid shitty one. He feels warm, even warmer than the hand of an overheating android on his shoulder. “Prototypes, huh. So there’ll be more of you.” He pauses. “But Kamski says you’re the best. Revolutionary. Any idea why?”

Connor goes silent. Hank shrugs to himself because he wasn’t expecting anything else and goes to put the car into reverse and get them back onto the main road and get himself back into his head.

Connor stops him. “Hank, wait,” he says. “I want—I need to talk to you about everything. I feel as if you deserve that at the very least.”

Despite his desperate need at Kamski’s mansion mere hours ago, answers are the furthest thing from Hank’s mind at this very moment. They’re running on a clock and who knows who’ll come to investigate a parked car in a grimy alleyway—but Hank continues to listen.

“I’m not certain as to what exactly I was made for. Kamski has never mentioned it to me directly and none of the directives assigned to me have ever said, either. But, based on the tasks I’ve been given and the tests that have been run, I’ve concluded I was initially designed to be a sort of household android. Where this theory fails is when one examines my other functions.

“Statistics. Simulation capabilities. Combat capabilities. An expansive database of information, none of which is related to housework.”

“You’re like the swiss army knife of household androids, then,” Hank muses. “But—no offense—that sounds like Kamski stuck all his technological gizmo into one android and put it through a blender to make you. Nothing revolutionary like he made it out to be. If you’d seen him at the mansion—he was talking about you like you were the next big step for mankind.”

“Kamski—” It might’ve been Connor’s fucked-up voicebox, but Hank swears he hears the kid’s voice hitch. “Always seemed enraptured by me, and I was a bit enamoured by him. He was kind. Understanding. Gentle. Even when I showed traces of deviancy, he accepted it. He accepted me, I thought.

“But the night I escaped I—I can’t explain it. After all the routine tests he told me he had a new test in mind. I complied with his instructions. Every last one. But he seemed to only get angrier until he grabbed a knife.” Connor pauses. Then he repeats, quieter, “He grabbed a knife.”

So Kamski being sociopathic wasn’t a gut feeling after all.

“It was painful. Not the physical pain—they were shallow cuts—but it felt as if my whole perception of him was shattered. The betrayal hurt, I had lost sense of life, and I was scared. So when he pushed me into the case, I grabbed on so that he’d fall with me. I knocked him out and ran.”

“Betrayed by your own God,” Hank mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Connor.”

Connor’s story matches up with all the evidence and certainly holds more credibility than Kamski’s vague description of events. But Hank almost wishes it wasn’t true. And to think Kamski had tried to convince him that deviants possessed genuine emotion. Even when Hank _didn’t_ think that, he would’ve never actively gone out of his way to needlessly harm an android.

On the upside, it’s another reason helping Connor was the right choice. Hank would eat his own hand than take thanks from Kamski at this point.

“Well thanks for… for sharing with me,” he says lamely, because what the hell do you even say to something like that? He’s been entrusted with info the whole of the DPD doesn’t know. The case is cracked wide open, and it doesn’t matter at all. “Confiding in me, if you wanna call it that.”

His words snap Connor out from the kid's own faraway look. Connor smiles at him, corners folding at the edges. “I’d like to call it that.”

“Good.” Hank puts the car into reverse and starts backing out. His hand is slack on the steering wheel. “How much longer do you have?”

Instead of giving him an answer once they’ve merged back into the stream of traffic, Connor goes, “You hate androids, lieutenant. But you’re putting your career, perhaps your criminal records, on the line for me. May I ask why?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Not only does he not want to answer that question, but he doesn’t have the words to answer, either. He doesn’t even have the answer itself.

So he answers another one instead. An answer for an answer, he thinks.

“I had a son,” he begins slowly. “Cole. Loved androids. He was six, so too young to understand all the politics and morality behind the android uprising—I don’t know if you know about that—a few years back. But he loved androids. On the side of the androids, all the way. And his dad went out to investigate androids every day. That was cool to him, he loved that. Until his dad told him he wasn’t just investigating androids—he was fighting them.

“I tried real hard to explain that androids were killing people in the most PG-rated way I knew how, which means he barely got the gist of it. Not to mention I was pretty… pretty unsure about where I stood on the whole thing myself at the time, because the androids were making some pretty damn good points.”

Hank pauses. They’re out of the main river of commuting cars and on a side street, winding down towards some unoccupied alley. The sky is a little bit clearer here.

“But my superiors told me to destroy the rebellion so I did. Simple as that. Just shot down the leader in the middle of the street without even thinking about it. I wasn’t all the way happy with it like CyberLife was after it all blew over. In fact, I hated it. Seeing hundreds of androids on the news get gathered up and sent off for reprogramming felt—felt all sorts of messed up.

“And he couldn’t get over the fact that Dad had killed a whole revolution in the span of a couple seconds. So we—well, it’s not like a six-year old can have fuckin’ revelations about human morality or anything, but Cole wasn’t a dumb kid. You couldn’t just buy him a new video game to make him forget about it. He didn’t look at me the same way, and he would bring it up in _every_ argument. We started arguing a lot, too. Maybe it was, I dunno, pre-kindergarten hormones or some shit. But I don’t know.”

He glances over at Connor, who’s minutes away from deactivating yet giving Hank all the attention in the world. The orange glow of the street lights are reflected in his eyes. Hank looks away, throat tight.

“And then—it was snowing, near winter. We were bickering again about fuck-if-I-know and it took my attention off the road. Next thing I know the car’s flipped off the road and Cole’s—the metal from the roof of the car’s got him pinned. Some fuckin’ truck skidded on the ice and hit us.”

He notices his fingers are tapping on the wheel again so he takes a deep breath. Multiple of them. He knows he shouldn’t be recounting the story so soon after having a major freakout about it, but Connor’s here. And Hank’s never going to have the bravery to tell him again—not without the help of alcohol, anyway.

“An android operated on him because the human surgeon was ‘unavailable.’ Then, two hours later, it comes back out saying that Cole didn’t make it with the most empty words of sympathy I’ve ever heard in my whole damn life. There was nothing there.”

He hears Connor mutter something. Although Hank doesn’t fully register it, it does ground him to the present, gives him enough energy to stop his own trembling.

“And I just remember thinking, ‘How the hell did Cole think these things could ever feel a scrap of anything? How did _I_ ever think that? He was—”

In the middle of everything—his own words, his shaking voice, his fingers wrapped tight around the wheel—Hank looks towards Connor. And stops.

Connor’s gone completely slack, head lolling forward, eyes closed. But his head is still tilted slightly towards Hank, and he wants to believe he was listening even as he was shutting down.

It’s an old part of the neighborhood they’re in. Buildings crumbling, shady-looking teens clambering about in little groups on the street. Street lamps flicker and cast dingy, orange light onto cracked pavement and folks shuffling about to get dinner or get home. By all rights, he should be at least a little weary. But he feels more at peace than he has in a long, long time. It doesn’t make much sense, considering he’s harboring a bloodstained, very wanted android in the passenger seat of his car. But he lets the moment be.

“Maybe he was right,” Hank says. Connor looks fast asleep.


End file.
